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THE VILLAGE WIFE'S LAMENT 



THE 

VILLAGE WIFE'S 

LAMENT 



BY 



MAURICE HEWLETT 

Author of 
"Earthwork Out of Tuscany, * ' **Gai Saber," etc. 



G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 
NEW YORK AND LONDON 

XTbe IkntcJ^erbocker iPress 

1918 



1<^ 



Copyright, rgiS 

BY 

MAURICE HEWLETT 



Ube imfclterbocfcer ^tcee, flew |?orlt 

NOV II 1918 



Oci.A50653i 









The Village Wife's Lament 



The Village Wife's Lament 



1 



O WHAT is this you've done to me, 

Or what have I done, 
That bare should be our fair roof-tree, 

And I all alone? 
'Tis worse than widow I become, 

More than desolate, 
To face a worse than empty home 

Without child or mate. 

'Twas not my strife askt him his life 

When it was but begun, 
Nor mine, I was a new-made wife 

And now I am none; 
Nor mine that many a sapless ghost 

Wails in sorrow-fare — 
But this does cost my pride the most. 

That bloodshedding to share. 
3 



The Village Wife's Lament 

Image of streaming eyes, tear-gleaming, 

Of women foiled and defeat, 
I am like Christ shockt out of dreaming. 

Showing His hands and feet; 
Showing His feet and hands to God, 

Saying, "Are these in vain? 
For men I have trod the sorrowful road, 

And by them I am slain. " 

Seeing I have a breast in common, 

I must share in that shame. 
Since from the womb of some poor woman 

Each evil one came — 
Every hot and blundering thought, 

Every hag-rid will, 
And every haut king pride-distraught 

That drove men out to kill. 



A woman's womb did fashion him, 

Her bosom was his nurse. 
And many women's eyes are dim 

To see their sons a curse. 
Had I the wit some women have 

To one such I would say, 
"Think you this love the good Lord gave 

Is yours to take away ? ' ' 
4 



The Village Wife's Lament 

O Hand divine that for a sign 

Didst bend the rose-red bow, 
Betokening wrath was no more Thine 

With man's Cain-branded brow — 
What now, O Lord, shouldst Thou accord 

To such a shameful brood? 
A bow as crimson as the sword 

Which men have soakt in blood. 



11 



I CANNOT see the grass 
Or feel the wind blowing, 

But I think of brother and brother 
And hot blood flowing. 

The whole world akin. 

And I, an alien. 
Walk branded with the sin 

And the blood-guilt of men. 

And often I cry 

In my sharp distress. 
It were better to die 

Than know such bitterness. 
5 



The Village Wife's Lament 

iii 

The Lord of Life He did ordain 

How this world should run, 
That Love should call thro' joy and pain 

Two natures to be one; 
Now jags across the high God's plan 

Division like a scar, 
For this is true, that He made man, 

But man made war. 

Had men the dower of teeth and claws 

And not a grace beside them ? 
Were they given wit to know the laws 

And hard hearts to outride them ? 
What drove them turn the sweet green earth 

Into a puddle of blood ? 
What drove them drown our simple mirth 

In salt tear-flood? 

Has man been lifted up erect, 

A lord of life and death, 
His world's elect, and his brow deckt 

With murder for a wreath? 
What shall be done with such an one, 

And whither he be hurl'd ? 
The Lord let crucify His Son — 

Who gibbeted His world? 
6 



The Village Wife's Lament 



IV 



Be it Pole Star or Southern Cross 

That shelters me or you, 
The same things are gain and loss, 

And the same things true : 
The home-love, the mother-love. 

The old, old things; 
The lad's love of maiden's love 

That gives a man wings. 

And makes a maid stand still, afraid 

Lest it were all a dream 
That he do think himself apaid 

If she be all to him. 
The arching earth has no more worth 

Than this, to love, to wed. 
To serve the hearth, to bring to birth. 

To win your children's bread. 



The bee pills nothing for himself, 
Loading with gold his thigh, 

The martin twittering at his shelf, 
Glancing from the sky — 
7 



The Village Wife's Lament 

Not greedy ease makes slaves of these; 

Nor yet endures the cow, 
Her failing knees and agonies 

For price of joy I vow. 



A call above the spell of love, 

A crying and a need 
To make two one, the fruit whereof 

To nurture and to feed ; 
To brood, to hoard, to spend as rain 

Virtue and tears and blood ; 
To get that you may give amain — 

Of such is parenthood. 



VI 



I CHOSE a heart out of a hundred 

To nest my own heart in ; 
To have that plunder'd, and two hearts 
simder'd — 

Who had heart for the sin? 
What woman's son that saw but one 

Such sanctuary waste 
Could set his lips like ironstone 

And raven broadcast ? 
8 



The Village Wife's Lament 

What harm did we to any man 

That now I must moan ? 
We did but follow Nature's plan 

And cleave to our own ; 
For Life it teaches you but this : 

Seek you each other; 
Rise up from your clasp and kiss, 

A father and a mother. 



O piety of hand and knee, 

Of lips and bow'd head! 
O ye who see a soul set free — 

Free, when the heart is dead ! 
There is no rest but in the grave ; 

Thither my wasted eyes 
Turn for the only home they have. 

Where my true love lies. 

There alongside his clay-cold corse 

I pray that mine may rest ; 
I'll warm him with my lover's force 

And feed him at my breast : 
I'll nurse him as I nurst his child, 

The child he never saw. 
The stricken child that never smil'd, 

And scarce my milk could draw. 
9 



The Village Wife's Lament 

Poor girls, whose argument's the same 

For seeking or denying, 
Who kiss to shield yourselves from blame, 

And kiss for justifying; 
How am I better now or worse, 

Beguiler or beguiled, 
Who crave to nurse a clay-cold corse. 

And kiss a dead child ? 

vii 

I WAS shap't in comeliness. 
My face was fashion'd fair. 

My breath was sweet, I used to bless 

The treasure of my hair; 
A many prais'd my body's grace, 

And follow'd with the eye 
My faring in the village ways. 

And I knew why. 

Love came my way, fire-flusht and gay, 

Where I did stand : 
"This is the day your pride to lay 

Under a true man's hand. " 

1 bow'd my head to hear it said 
In words of long ago; 

For ever since the world was made 
Our lot was order'd so. 

10 



The Village Wife's Lament 

And I was bred in pious bed, 

Brought up to be good : 
Respect yourself, my mother said. 

And rule your own mood. 
Fend for yourself while you're a may, 

And keep your own counsel. 
And pick at what the neighbours say 

As a bird picks at groundsel. 

But Love said Nay to Watch and Pray 

When the birds were singing. 
And taught my heart a roundelay 

Like the bells a-ringing; 
And so blindf ast I ran and cast 

My treasure on the gale — 
Would the storm-blast had snapt the mast 

Before I fared to sail! 



II 



II 



Now that the Lord has open'd me 

The evil with the good, 
I am as one wise suddenly 

Who never understood. 
I see the shaping of my days 

From the beginning, 
When, a young child, I walkt the ways 

And knew nought of sinning. 

I see how Nature ripen'd me 

Under sun and shower. 
As she ripens herb and tree 

To bud and to flower. 
As she ripens herb and tree 

Unto flowering shoot. 
So it was she ripen'd me 

That I might fruit. 

12 



The Village Wife's Lament 

I see — alas, how shotdd I not, 

With all joy behind? — 
How that in love I was begot 

And for love design'd. 
Consentient, my mother lent, 

Blessing, who had been blest, 
That fount unspent, my nourishment, 

Which after swell' d my breast. 

ii 

I LEARNED at home the laws of Earth : 

The nest-law that says. 
Stray not too far beyond the hearth. 

Keep truth always; 
And then the law of sip and bite : 

Work, that there may be some 
For you who crowd the board this night, 

And the one that is to come. 

The laws are so for bird and beast. 

And so we must live : 
They give the most who have the least, 

And gain of what they give. 
For working women 'tis the luck, 

A child on the lap; 
And when a crust he learn to suck, 

Another's for the pap. 
13 



The Village Wife's Lament 



111 



I KNOW 'tis true, the laws of Life 

Are holy to the poor : 
Cleave you to her who is your wife, 

Trust you in her store; 
Eat you with sweat your self -won meat, 

Labour the stubborn sod, 
And that your heat may quicken it, 

Wait still upon God. 

Hallow with praise the wheeling days 

Until the cord goes slack, 
Until the very heartstring frays, 

Until the stiffening back 
Can ply no more ; keep then the door, 

And, thankful in the sun, 
Watch you the same unending war 

Ontaken by your son. 



IV 



Who is to know how she does grow 
Or how shapes her mind? 

The seasons flow, not fast or slow, 
We cannot lag behind. 
14 



The Village Wife's Lament 

The long winds blow, a tree lies low 
That was an old friend : 

The winter snow, the siimmer's glow- 
Shall these things have an end ? 

When I was young I used to think 

I should not taste of death; 
And now I faint to reach the brink, 

And grudge my every breath 
That streameth to the utter air' 

Leaving me to my tears 
And outlook bare, with eyes astare 

Upon the creeping years. 



That little old house that seems to stoop 

Yellow under thatch, 
Like a three-sided chicken-coop, 

Where, if you watch. 
You'll see the starlings go and come 

All a spring morn — 
Half of that is my old home 

Where I was born. 

One half a little old cottage 

The five of us had. 
Five tall sisters in a cage 

With our Mother and Dad. 
15 



The Village Wife*s Lament 

Alice she was the eldest one, 

Then Mary, and then me, 
And then Fanny, and little Joan, 

The last-bom was she. 

Never a boy that liv'd to grow 

Did our mother carry; 
She us'd to wonder how she'd do 

With five great girls to marry. 
But once I heard her say to Dad, 

A chain of pretty girls 
Made out her neck the comelier clad 

Than diamonds or pearls. 

vi 

How we did do on Father's money 

Is more than I can tell : 
There was the money from the honey, 

And Mother's work as well; 
For she did work with no more rest 

Than the buzzing bees, 
And the sight I knew and lov'd the best 

Was Mother on her knees. 

When we were fed and clean for school. 

Out Mother goes, 
Rinsing, rubbing, her hands full 

Of other people's clothes. 
i6 



The Village Wife's Lament 

If there's one thought above another 

Sets my heart singing, 
It's thinking of my little sweet Mother, 

Her arms full of linen. 

And yet she rul'd her house and all 

Us girls within it; 
There was no meal but we could fall 

To it at the minute; 
Thing there was none, said, thought or done, 

But she must know it. 
Nor any errand to be run 

But she made us go it. 

She with her anxious, watchful glance, 

Blue imder her glasses, 
Was meat and drink and providence 

To us five lasses. 
Out she fetcht from hidden stores 

White frocks for Sundays, 
And always nice clean pinafores 

Against school, Mondays. 

She and Dad were little people, 

But most of us were tall. 
And I shot up like Chichester steeple; 

Fan, she was small. 
17 



The Village Wife's Lament 

You never saw a kinder face 

Or met with bluer eyes : 
If ever there was a kissing-case 

On her mouth it Hes. 

vii 

When I was old enough for skipping 

My school days began ; 
By Mary's side you'd see me tripping- 

I was baby then. 
ABC and One-two-three 

Were just so much Greek; 
But I could read, it seems to me, 

As soon as I could speak. 

Before I knew how fast I grew 

I was the tallest there; 
Before my time was two-thirds thro' 

I must plait my hair; 
Before our Alice took a place 

And walkt beside her fancy, 
I had on my first pair of stays 

And saw myself Miss Nancy. 

And then goodbye to form and desk 
And sudden floods of noise 

When fifteen minutes' fun and frisk 
Make happy girls and boys. 
i8 



The Village Wife's Lament 

As shrill as swifts in upper air 

Was otir young shrillness : 
'Twas joy of life, 'twas strength to fare 

Broke the morning stillness. 

I see us flit, as here I sit 

With wet-fring'd eyes, 
And never rime or reason to it^ — 

Like a maze of flies ! 
The boys would jump and catch your shoulder 

Just for the fun of it — 
They tease you worse as you grow older 

Because you want none of it. 

I hear them call their saucy names — 

Mine was Maypole Nance; 
I see our windy bickering games, 

Half like a dance; 
The opening and closing ring 

Of pinafored girls, 
And the wind that makes the cheek to sting 

Blowing back their curls ! 

There in the midst is Sally Waters, 

As it might be I, 
With the idle song of Sons and Daughters 

Drifting out and by — 
19 



The Village Wife's Lament 

Sons and daughters ! Break, break, 

Heart, if you can — 
How have they taught us treat sons and 
daughters 

Since I began? 



Vlll 

There is a bank that always gets 

The noon sun full; 
There we'd hunt for violets 

After morning school. 
White and blue we hunted them 

In the moss, and gave them, 
Dropping- tir'd and short in stem, 

To Mother. She must have them. 



Primrose-mornings in the copse, 

Autumn berrying 
Where the dew forever stops, 

And the serrying. 
Clinging shrouds of gossamers 

Glue your eyes together; 
Gleaning after harvesters 

In the mild blue weather — 

20 



The Village Wife's Lament 

Life so full of bud and blossom, 

Fallen like a tree! 
Who gave me a woman's bosom — 

And who has robb'd me? 



21 



Ill 



When from the folds the shepherd comes 

At the shut of day, 
The fires are lit in valley homes, 

The smoke blue and grey — 
So still, so still! — hangs o'er the thatch; 

So still the night falls. 
My love might know me at the latch 

By my heart-calls. 

And hear you me, my love, this night 

Where Grief and I are set ? 
And look you for the beacon light, 

And can you see it yet? 
Or is the sod too deep, my love, 

Which they piled over you? 
Or are you bound in sleep, my love. 

Lying in the dew? 

22 



The Village Wife's Lament 

ii 

When I was done with schooling days, 

Tum'd sixteen, 
My mother found me in a place 

My own bread to win. 
I had not been a month in place, 

A month from the start, 
When there show'd grace upon my face 

That smote a man's heart. 

Tho' I was young and full of play, 

As full as a kitten, 
I knew to reckon to a day 

When his heart was smitten. 
You'll pick my logic all to holes, 

But here's my wonder: 
It is that God should knit two souls. 

And men tear them asunder. 

For we were knit, no doubt of it, 

I as well as he; 
I peered in glass, my eyes were lit 

After he'd lookt at me. • 
I knew not why my heart was glad. 

Or why it leapt, but so 'tis. 
The sharpest, sweetest pang I've had 

Was when he took notice. 
23 



The Village Wife's Lament 

And *tis not favour makes a lad 

To a girl's mind, 
But 'tis tdmself makes good of bad, 

Or her stone-blind. 
And men may cheer at tales of wars. 

But every girl knows 
What makes her eyes to shine like stars 

And her face a rose. 

iii 

No word he said, but turned his head 

After he'd lookt at me; 
I coloured up a burning red, 

Setting the cloth for tea. 
The board was spread with cakes and bread 

For farmer in his sleeves, 
For mistress and the shepherd Ted; 

They talkt of hogs and theaves — 

But nothing ate I where I sat. 

So bashful as I was, 
But kept my eyes upon my plate 

And pray'd the minutes pass. 
Tic-toe, tic-toe from great old clock, 

The long hand did creep ; 
And every stroke in my heart woke 

Nature out of her sleep. 
H 



The Village Wife's Lament 

So once, they tell, did Gabriel 

Name a young Maid 
For honour and a miracle, 

And few words she said; 
But things have changed a wondrous deal 

Since she was nam'd, 
If to her room she did not steal 

As if she were asham'd; 

And there upon her bed to sit 

Astare, as I guess, 
Watching her fingers weave and knit, 

Bedded in her dress, 
A-thinking thoughts in her young mind 

Too wild for tears to gain, 
As when the roaring North-West wind 

Gives no time to the rain. 

iv 

Give thanks, you maids, that there's your work 

To keep your heart and head 
From thoughts that lurk in them who shirk 

Their daily round to tread. 
But she goes bold who feels the hold 

And colour of her love 
Laid on her task like water-gold 

From the lit sky above. 
25 



The Village Wife's Lament 

V 

I ROSE with early morning light, 

The meadows grey with rime, 
To set the kitchen fire, and dight 

The room for breakfast-time; 
Or make the beds, or rinse and scour. 

And all the while 
A singing heart, a face aflower, 

And secret smile. 

So 'twas with me week in, week out, 

And no more to be said; 
A moment's look, a hint of doubt, 

A half-turn of the head. 
I had my hands as full as full. 

And full of work was he — 
But I learn' d in another school 

After he'd lookt at me. 



VI 



In summer time of flowers and bees 

And flies on the pane. 
Before the sun could gild the trees 

Or set afire the vane, 
26 



The Village Wife*s Lament 

Down I must go upon my knees, 

Or ply the showering mop ; 
Then feed the chickens, ducks and geese, 

And milk the last drop. 

On winter mornings dark and hard, 

White from aching bed, 
There were the huddled fowls in yard 

All to be fed. 
My frozen breath stream'd from my lips, 

The cows were hid in steam ; 
I lost sense of my finger-tips 

And milkt in a dream. 

My drowsy cheek fast to her side, 

The pail below my arm, 
My thought leapt what might me betide. 

And soon I was warm. 
For that gave me a beating heart 

And made me hot thro', 
As when you reckon, with a start. 

Someone speaks of you. 

vii 

And all my years of farm-service 
There was no dismay, 
27 



The Village Wife's Lament 

But men and maids knew nought amiss 

With their work or play ; 
But grew amain like tree or beast, 

Labouring out their lives 
Till sap and milk fill'd spine and breast, 

And ripen'd men and wives. 

What call had we to think of war, 

We growing things? 
What need had we to reckon o'er 

Misdoubts or threatenings? 
A soldier-lad in his red coat 

Show'd up then as he passed 
Like a lamp -lighted fishing-boat 

Lonely in the vast. 

An aeroplane in middle sky 
Might bring us to our doors, 

To see her like a dragon-fly 
Droning as she soars. 

Long before you see her come 
You can hear her throbbing, 

Far, far away like a distant drum, 

^ Near, like a thresher sobbing. 

Ah, in those days of wonderment, 
Wonder and delight, 
28 



The Village Wife's Lament 

No thought we spent what murder meant, 

Horror in the night ; 
Or how a hidden dreadful plan 

Like a fingering weed 
Was growing up in the mind of man 

From a fungus-seed ! 



29 



IV 



1 



Out of the clear how shrewdly blows 

The North- West wind! 
Free as he goes, how brave he shows, 

The sun seems blind ! 
The shadows fleet upon the grass 

Where the kestrels hover — 
What leagues of sorrow they must pass 

Before they shroud my lover ! 

Half -naked now, confronting cold, 

The tall trees shiver. 
Each with its pool of pallid gold 

Draining down to the river. 
'Tis now when fret of winter wet 

Warns the year she is old, 
And she casts robe and coronet, 

That I would loosen hold. 
30 



The Village Wife's Lament 

ii 

Our lives creep on to change at last, 

And change is sudden coming; 
Rooted you see yourself and fast, 

And then be sent roaming. 
When I was come to twenj:y years, 

Home for a spell, 
Mother she brought a flush of tears 

With what she had to tell. 

There was a fine new place for me 

Forty miles away — 
And where my dream of what might be 

One fine day? 
The farmer's wife she kiss'd me kindly 

When I was paid; 
But Ted and I said Good-bye blindly. 

And no more said. 

No word between us of the thought 

That fiU'd four years, 
No fond look caught by eyes well taught, 

Tho' thick with tears ! 
'Twas Good-bye, Nance, and Good-bye, Ted, 

And just a clasp of the hand : 
Maybe I'll write, he might have said 

For me to understand. 
31 



The Village Wife's Lament 

But poor people have need to work 

Whether merry or sad, 
Whatever groping thought do lurk, 

Whatever dreams they've had ! 
I went my way and he kept his, 

I to the county town, 
He in a row of cottages 

Below the hump-backt down. 

iii 

A TOWN-BRED girl, her hair in curl 

And apron edged with lace. 
She took me in, my head awhirl, 

To my new place. 
And there the five of us must hive 

In that warm shutter' d house. 
And keep our honesty alive 

With none to counsel us. 

The master and the mistresses, 

What were they but strangers? 
'Twas no part of their businesses 

To think of servants* dangers. 
They sneer at us, and we at them. 

Life sunders where the stairs are: 
But are the things that they condemn 

In us much worse than theirs are? 
32 



The Village Wife's Lament 

iv 

'TwAS busy now I had to be, 

And keep myself neat, 
Dress in my new black gown by tea, 

And streamer' d cap to it. 
The brisk young men were plenty enough, 

And talk about them plenty 
Among us maids ! No other stuff 

Contents the tongue at twenty. 

But Mother's words came back to me, 

Told when I was little : 
Mind you, the tongue's your only key. 

And what it guards is brittle. 
Love is the best ; let go the rest. 

But hold him by the wing 
Until he's plumaged for the test — 

Then let him soar and sing. 

I took no harm of all their talk — 

All tallct the same — 
Tho' more than one askt me to walk 

When my Sunday came; 
But I held fast the dream I'd had 

In the old farm, 
And saw myself beside my lad. 

My hand on his arm. 
^ 33 



The Village Wife's Lament 



A YEAR went on, and twenty-one 

Saw me discarded. 
They laught at me for constancy 

Ne'er to be rewarded. 
Then came a warm, still day of May 

And brought me a letter. 
I blusht so red, the cook she said, 

Lucky man to get her ! 

At half-past three he came for me; 

I dared not speak; 
But there was all he need to see 

Flaming in my cheek. 
What better has the best of us 

If kind Heaven grant her 
A glowing hearth, a little house. 

And a good man to want her? 

In the soft shrouding clinging mist 

His strong arms held me. 
Our lips kept tryst, and long we kiss'd; 

His great love fill'd me. 
Sweet is the warmth of summer weather. 

But the best fire I know 
Is of two pair of lips together, 

Two hearts in one glow. 
34 



The Village Wife's Lament 

His love he told, that made me bold 

To look at him fairly, 
And see the burning blush take hold 

And colour him up rarely. 
Within his ply though caught was I, 

I backt a saucy head : 
*'0h, I was shy a year gone by — 

Your turn now, " I said. 

vi 

Now would you prove the man I love 

As I saw him then? 
He was of them who're slow to move, 

One of your still men; 
One of your men self -communing 

Who see sheep on a hill. 
Ships out at sea or birds a- wing 

Where you see nil. 

And what they see they seldom say, 

Holding speech to be vain; 
And yet so kin to earth are they 

They smell the coming rain. 
The earth can teach 'them without speech, 

They know as they are known — 
Why should they preach to the out-of-reach. 

Or counsel Nature's own? 
35 



The Village Wife's Lament 

He never was a man to talk, 

He was too wise; 
But things he'd see out on his walk 

Would blind another's eyes. 
But when it came to speak about them 

'Twas another thing. 
He'd say, "What use is it to shout them? 

I want to sing!" 

A smallish head, with jet-black hair 

And eyes grey-blue, 
You felt when'er he lookt you fair 

That he must be true; 
And when he smil'd his dear and shy way 

Sidelong his mouth, 
I always thought the sun fell my way 

And the wind South. 

So I possest the knowledge blest 

That Love had held him fast 
Since the day our eyes confest, 

The first time and the last. 
"Since then, " he said," I never durst 

Look at you at all, 
For fear you'd see the hunger and thirst 

That kept me like a thrall. 
36 



The Village Wife's Lament 

vii 

" 'TwAS when you went away and left 

Me and pain alone, 
By fortune's theft I stood bereft 

Of all I'd counted on — 
And this also, I ne'er could go 

On my shepherd life. 
Without I had the grace to woo 

You my loving wife. 

"There was a fate, I do beheve, 

Call'd us together; 
God visit me when'er you grieve 

Taking on my tether! 
But if we share with every creature 

That is quick and dead 
The call of nature unto nature, 

Then we two should wed. 

"You are a beauty bred and bom, 

As any one can see ; 
You walk the world as if in scorn 

Of riches or degree. 
Your eyes call home the soft green tone 

Of the fainting sky 
When the eve-star keeps watch alone, 

And the summer is nigh. 
37 






The Village Wife's Lament 

"But 'tis your grave and constant mind 

Beckon'd me to you, 
Too good, too sweet, too fond, too kind, 

For me to be untrue. 
So trust me, lass, I'll not be false 

While I do live, 
For we two go where Nature calls. 

As I believe." 

viii 

Trust ! Oh, I could have sunk to ground 

And lain under his feet ! 
To have his praise was like a wound, 

Throbbing and deadly sweet ; 
A wound that lets the welling blood 

Ebb from the vein, 
Merging the hurt in drowsihood, 

And hushing down the pain. 

High destiny of Nature's calling, 

Foil'd and frustrate! 
Just then the evil tide was crawling 

To drown love in hate. 



38 



The meadows wear a cloth of gold, 

The trees wear green; 
Upon the down in dimpled fold 

The white lambs glean ; 
Deep blue the skyey canopy, 

Soft the wind's fan : 
Behold the earth as it might be 

If man lov'd man ! 

Summer is soon ; the next new moon 

Will see the yellowing wheat; 
Then will be harvest, Earth's high boon 

To them that work for it. 
The reapers swink, the heat-waves blink 

Across the drowsy fen — 
Now let hearts shrink from scythes that 
drink 

The blood of young men ! 
39 



The Village Wife's Lament 
ii 

As I st(X)d at my open door 

I caught a flying word : 
Two strangers past, "Then that means 
war—" 

That was what I heard. 
'Twas ten o'clock a summer's day, 

My love on the hill. 
*'Then that means war, " I heard them say, 

And my heart stood still. 



Life had been fair as I stood there, 

Eight weeks a bride ; 
All of me laid warm and bare 

To my true love's side! 
Oh, who should dream of dark to-morrows 

And lonely weeping 
Whose steadfast joys and passing sorrows 

Lay in such a keeping? 



There blew a chill wind from the hill 

Like a sea-breath; 
I shiver' d and a taint of ill 

Brought news of death. 
40 



The Village Wife's Lament 

I blinkt my eyes as who should try 

To see what is to fear; 
The sun still shone high in the sky, 

But no warmth there. 

Then far away I saw the sea 

A rippling golden sheet, 
And courage flowed again in me — 

What foe could break thro' it? 
And all about the fields and hedges, 

There when I was bom, 
The river slipping through the sedges. 

And the growing com — 

A land of quiet tilth and cote, 

Of little woods and streams, 
Of gentle skies and clouds afloat, 

And swift sun-gleams! 
A land where knee-deep cattle keep. 

Chewing as they stand; 
Of hillsides murmurous with sheep — 

That is my native land ! 

They say you never love so dear 

As when you are to part ; 
I know, to see my land so clear 

Cut me to the heart. 
41 



The Village Wife's Lament jj 

What vain regrets to have lov'd so ill 

What was our all ! 
What idle vows to love her still 

Though she should fall! 

At stroke of noon my love came in 

Sharpset for his food; 
To see him was right sense to win, 

And feel safe and good. 
I was asham'd my fears to tell 

Lest he should think, 
** I thought I knew this woman well — 

But what makes her shrink?" 

iii 

The summer went her gracious way 

Of sun and lingering eves; 
I did my share to win the hay. 

The com stood in sheaves 
Ere August month was fairly come; 

And when it was here 
I knew I carried in my womb 

The harvest of my dear. 

iv 

When I was sure I sat down quiet 
In the deep shade, 
42 



The Village Wife's Lament 

And if my heart was all in riot 

I was not afraid. 
I did not think, nor say a pray'r, 

But lookt straight before me, 
And felt that Someone else stood there 

With hands held o'er me. 

I thought His peace blest my increase; 

But then, as it seem'd, 
A shadow made my joy to cease, 

And the day was dimm'd. 
I shiver'd as if one a knife 

Should pull forth of the sheath. 
I think just then the Lord of Life 

Gave way to Him of Death. 

As one bestead with gossamer-thread 

I pluckt at my eyes 
To catch again the glory shed, 

The hope, the load, the prize; 
But no more hands invisible 

Held like a shade o'er me. 
And there seem'd little enough to tell 

My husband momently. 

The long forenoon my thought I held, 
And yet all thro' it 
43 



The Village Wife's Lament 

The wires all England over shrill'd, 

And I never knew it ! 
In a high muse I nurst my news 

All the forenoon, 
While England braced her limbs and thews 

To a marching time. 



I serv'd my love, when he came home, 

His meal ; then on his knee 
I told him what I might become, 

And he kiss'd me; 
Then said, "Indeed, there may be need 

Of this little one. 
For many a woman's heart must bleed 

For wanting of a son. 

"Since we awoke, the word is spoke, 

And if 'tis still right 
That English folk keep faith imbroke. 

Then must England fight. " 
I could not look, nor think, nor ask 

What himself would do, 
But call'd to task my pride, to bask 

In what had warm'd me thro'. 
44 



The Village Wife's Lament 

Oh, he was grave and self-possest 

Under love's new crown ! 
He took me in his arms to rest, 

And lay my head down 
A moment on his shoulder; then 

Went steady to his work. 
I knew what fate soe'er call'd men 

He was none to shirk. 

Now I must play the helpful wife, 

And my new pride 
Be little worth to ease the strife 

That vext me in the side; 
For like a green and aching wound, 

Like a throbbing vein 
I felt this terror on the ground 

Of young men slain. 

The swooning summer sun sank low. 

And all the dusty air 
Held breathlessly beneath his glow. 

So tir'd, so quiet and fair, 
I would not think that men could live 

In such glory a minute, 
To hate and grudge, to slay and reive 

Poor souls within it. 
45 



The Village Wife's Lament 

vi 

I HEARD fond crying in my ears, 

Fond and vain regret 
For life as it had been ere tears 

Made women's eyes wet; 
I saw arise the host of stars 

And listen' d to their song; 
"O we have seen a thousand wars 

And woe agelong ! 

"What are you men, what are you women 

But a shifting sand ? 
The tide of life is overbrimming — 

God holds not His hand; 
But all the evil with the good 

To His mill is grist ; 
He serves his mood now with man's blood 

Who serv'd it once with beast. " 

So sang the stars. That night our love 

Bum'd at its holiest; 
For aught we knew the same might prove 

Our last in the nest. 
But from the bed my passion pled, 

O God, let us be! 
If woman's anguish her bestead, 

Then forsake not me ! 
46 



The Village Wife's Lament 
vii 

I DARE not trace that watching space 

Of days, too short, too long — 
Too long to wear a patient face, 

Too short to wear a strong. 
I us'd to think I'd have him choose 

His duty and begone; 
And then. No, no, I dare not lose 

Him ere he take his son ! 

Too long, too short the days to wait, 

To plan and think and dread; 
And happy we whose poor estate 

Claims our work for our bread. 
Each day I went to scour and scrub 

As my mother us'd, 
Or stood before the washing-tub 

Where the linen sluiced. 

And so my love with careful hand 

And careful eye 
Led his white flock about the land ; 

And I must sigh, 
''There's no rebelling in a poor man's dwelling, 

The roof stoops to the blast ; 
And no heart-swelling meets God's compelling. 

And what is cast is cast!" 
47 



The Village Wife*s Lament 

viii 

But as the tide crawls to his full 

Without your knowing, 
Invading rock and filling pool, 

Endlessly flowing ; 
Lo, while you sit and look at it, 

Idle, little thinking, 
The flood is brimming at your feet, 

Lipping there and winking — 

The very same the Great War grew; 

Like a flowing tide 
It spread its channels thro' and thro' 

The quiet countryside. 
One day you'd stop: a poster up, 

And Lord, how it glared ! 
The next there'd be a very crop, 

And not a body stared. 

And then the lorries flung along 

By ones and twos, and then 
In snaky line some twenty strong. 

Full of shouting men. 
They made me blench with noise and stench, 

But more, I do believe, 
To know them gaining inch by inch 

The earth whereby we live. 
48 



The Village Wife's Lament 

So faded fast the painted past 

Beneath the mist of war; 
One could not think life had been cast 

In sweet lines before. 
There was no list in that red mist 

For love or wholesome breath, 
But making rage our staple grist 

We ground the dust of death. 

Our men held talk among themselves, 

But said little to we; 
And soon they went by tens and twelves 

Soldiers to be. 
I knew how 'twould be from the first, 

I think my heart could tell; 
I loved a man who never durst 

Not do well. 



IX 



How young, how gay they marcht away, 

All our village boys ! 
Leaving us women here to pray. 

Drowning with their noise 
Misdoubt and eager mother-love. 

Hungry on the watch. 
As if they went to race and shove 

In a football match. 
4 49 



The Village Wife's Lament 

But my love chose in soberness 

Another way, his own;i 
And God I bless that my distress 

Came suddenly down. 
A swift November night was falling 

In a windless air; 
I heard him indoors, heard him calling, 

And went, and he was there. 



X 



He stood still, and his gaze 
Was far off, and slow 

And quiet the words he says : 
"Nancy, I must go." 

In my still heart's deep 
I gloried in the trust 

He handed me to keep. 
In his quiet "I must. " 

No more we said that night, 
But sat in the gloom ; 

We sat without candle-light 
In our little room. 
. 50 



The Village Wife's Lament 

Handfast, like girl and boy, 

There we sat on, 
Hoarding our store of joy 

Against he were gone. 

Handfast, like boy and girl, 
And my eyes they did fill ; 

But my heart was in a whirl 
To have him there still. 

'Twas when we were abed, 
And I against his heart, 

That I knew the great dread 
It would be to part. 

Old sayings, that sounded new, 
Sweet, every broken word — 

"My Nancy, sweet and true, 
My pretty wild bird!" 

I let him kiss me, but I 
Lay quite still in his arm : 

If I had started to cry 
God only knew the harm ! 

And if he thought me cool 

'Twould make an easier going; 

But if he thought me cool 

'Twas not for want of knowing. 
51 



The Village Wife's Lament 

Towards the twilight grey 
When my love was sleeping, 

I sat upright to pray, 
And heard the sparrows cheeping. 

It was their fond love-twitter 
That broke my prayer down, 

Turn'd all my faith bitter, 
To set it by their own. 

Their love-life to begin, 

And mine now — where? 
Their nest to win. 

Mine soon to be bare! 

I lookt forth from my bed 

To the cold square of the light — 
Unto God I said, 

"Show me why men must fight, 

"You, Who to each one say, 

Love you one another; 
You, Who bid women obey 

Husbands, and sons their mother; 

"You, Who of me require 
To love what I cannot see, 

Milk and a heart of fire 

To nourish what may not be! 
52 



The Village Wife's Lament 

''Shall my milk be chum'd into gall, 
Or my blood freeze at the fount, 

And You make light of it all, 
And my love of little account?" 

Then as I held my throat, 
God answer'd me by a bird, 

One long flourishing note. 
The bravest I ever heard ; 

And I turn'd where my love lay fast 

In his wholesome sleep; 
About him my arms I cast 

And found grace to weep. 

He would do what was right, 

As I knew very well — 
Yes, but who made them fight. 

And turn'd our heaven to hell? 

The more I listen the sighs, 
The mourning and the dearth, 

The deeper my heart cries 
Over this wounded earth. 



I 



53 



VI 



May the good King 
That guards like sheep 

Kings and shepherds all 
Send us quiet sleep ! 

Shepherds great and small 

Has He in hold ; 
There need no danger 

Threaten field or fold. 

Lowly in a manger 
That King was bom 

Of maid undefiled 
On a winter's morn. 

He lay a little child 
On His mother's knee; 

Three kings out of the East 
Came Him to see. 
54 



The Village Wife's Lament 

On a mother's breast 

Still did He lie; 
Said one king to the other, 

''Such once was 11" 

Then said his brother, 
''Even thus, I trow. 

Once lay thy simplicity. 
But where is that now ? " 



11 



How many a woman's eyes are worn, 

Weeping a murder'd son! 
How many wish none they had borne 

To do as theirs have done ! 
Who dares to see a mask of hate 

And snarling on the face 
Which she had pray'd to consecrate 

To honour for a space? 

This high-fiusht lad whom she has known 

Since as a new-born child 
He lay as soft as thistle-down, 

Or like an angel smil'd; 
Whom she has seen, a sturdy imp 

Tumble bare-breecht at play, 
55 



The Village Wife's Lament 

Or nurst to health when, quiet and hmp, 
Short-breath'd and flusht he lay; 



Or shockhead boy, aburst with joy, 

Or gawky, ill-at-ease, 
All hot and coy, a hobbledehoy 

With laces round his knees — 
But hers, her own, with eyes that trust 

Hers for his better part — 
Ah, tiger-lust of War that thrust 

A hand to snatch that heart ! 



She hides her woe, and helps him go, 

She sits at home to pray; 
He tells her when he met the foe. 

But nothing of the way. 
She never knows the way, and who 

Would know it if she could, 
What in his fever-heat he do 

Of rage and dust and blood ? 



The lads go by, the colours fly, 
Drums rattle, bugles bray; 

We only cry, Let mine not die — 
No thought for whom he slay. 
56 



The Village Wife's Lament 

But woman bares a martyr breast, 
And herself points the flame : 

Her son, a hero or a beast, 
Will never be the same. 



Ill 



When forth my love to duty went 

I sought my old home, 
My few months' joy over and spent, 

And lean years to come. 
My mother blinkt her patient eyes ; 

She said, It was to be. 
Was I less temperate or more wise 

To question her decree? 

Was it for this, our clasp and kiss ? 

For this end and no other 
That I was shapt to have increase. 

And call'd to be mother? 
Did God make o'er the power to soar 

On men, that they should sink? 
Did He outpour a flood of war 

And leave us on the brink? 

Was't so He wove the robe of Love, 
To mock the lovely earth? 
57 



The Village Wife's Lament 

Sees He, above, creation move 

To death, not birth? 
Go, thou dear head, for God is dead, 

And Death is our Lord : 
Between us, red, lies in the bed 

War, like a naked sword. 

iv 

O FAILING heart, accept your part, 
And thank the Lord, Who bound 

Your labour daily to the mart, 
Your service to the ground ! 

Take to the mart your stricken heart, 
Tho' the chaffer graze it ; 

Shrink not altho' the quick flesh smart- 
But meet pain and praise it ! 



He came to see me once again. 

Stiff en'd in his new buff; 
A few short hours compact of strain. 

Too hasty for love; 
For Love can never be confin'd, 

But asks eternity. 
To nurse the lov'd one in the mind 

The bond must first be free. 
58 



The Village Wife's Lament 

And he, he now serv'd otherwhere 

And could not be the same; 
To all the world my love was there 

And answer' d to his name; 
But not to me, oh, not to me 

The kisses of his lips 
Were as of old, but guardedly, 

Like sunlight in eclipse. 

The moment came, I held him close, 

But had no word to say — 
Good-bye, sweetheart, Good-bye, Blush Rose ; 

'Twas his old way. 
Then in a hush which seem'd to rock 

Me like a leaf about, 
I heard the pulsing of the clock, 

Counting my dear life out. 



And I am here, and you are, where? 

While the long hours go by, 
And on my eyes the glaze of care, 

And in my heart a cry. 
Bury my heart deep in the grave 

Where all its grace is hid : 
What other service should I have 

Than tend my lovely dead? 
59 



The Village Wife's Lament 

vi 

Then waiting, watching, judging news, 

Then terror in the night — 
I used to start up with the dews 

All over me of fright. 
I dream'd of him on stormy seas; 

Then, in a woodland bare, 
I saw my love on hands and knees, 

With blood upon his hair. 

Along the limits of the wood, 

A green bank full of holes, 
With lichen'd stumps which lean'd or stood 

Like crazy channel-poles : 
'Twas there I saw my love's drawn face, 

A face of paper- white. 
Wherein just for a choking space 

His eyes shone burning bright; 

Then faded, and an eyeless man 

He crawled along the wood. 
And from his hair a black line ran 

And broaden'd into blood. 
It was not horror of him wrong'd. 

It was not pity mov'd me ; 
It was, those tortur'd eyes belong'd 

To one who'd never lov'd me. 
60 



The Village Wife's Lament 

That was my love in face and shape, 

That was my love in pain ; 
But something told me past escape 

That not by him I'd lain. 
I sat and star'd into the night, 

And still most dreadfully 
I saw those two eyes burning white 

That never had seen me ! 



Vll 

Upon a wild March morn 
My husband went to France; 

The day my child was bom 
His word came to advance. 

'Twas on that very day 

When my life should be crown'd. 
As I lay in, he lay 

Broken upon the ground. 



For my loss there was gain, 
But his precious blood 

Was shed to earth like rain 
Within the shattered wood. 
6i 



The Village Wife's Lament 

Missing, the paper said, 

But my heart said, Nay. 
Missing ! My man had been dead 

Before he went away ! 

viii 

It never throve from the first, 
Mother, she seem'd to fear it; 

But her words were the worst : 
** Nancy, you'll never rear it." 

Yet he took to the breast 
And I knew the great end 

Of women, to give their best, 
To spend and to spend. 

But his great eyes stared 

Till he seemed all eyes. 
And more than I dared 

Meet looks so wise. 

Wondering and darkly blue, 

Pondering and slow. 
They would look you thro' and thro*. 

Then tire and let you go, 
62 



The Village Wife's Lament 

And fall back to vacancy 

As if the poor thing plain 'd, 
"Why was I not let be, 

And what have I gain'd?" 

'Twas more than I could bear, 

I pray'd that he might die; 
And God must have heard my prayer. 

For he went with a little sigh: 

A flutter, a murmur, a sigh 

Lighter than dawn wind — 
It was his soft Good-bye; 

And all my life lay behind. 

I wonder if they were wise, 
Those three kings of the East 

Who offer' d gifts of price 

To the Child on a Girl's breast. 

But if they were wise, their sons 
Have other counsel than they : 

The gifts they offer are guns ; 

And the children's parents they slay. 

ix 

He went before my load was quicken'd, 
And I lay in alone. 
63 



The Village Wife's Lament 

He was not there when baby sicken 'd, 

Nor when it was gone. 
I walkt with Mother to the church 

With Mother and Fan, 
My hard eyes ever on thie search — 

Pity me who can ! 

The grief was bad enough to bear, 

So dreadfully to wean it ; 
But to go home and leave it there, 

And he had never seen it — ! 
It was a thing to thank God for 

That home for me was none; 
I knew before we reacht the door 

That my home life was done. 



Now limpt or dragg'd about our street 

The wounded men in blue, 
Trailing the feet which had been fleet. 

Or crutching one for two; 
Like ghosts of men past out of ken, 

Pale and uncertain-eyed. 
Whose gaze would flicker out, and then 

Come back with hasty pride. 
64 



The Village Wife's Lament 

What they had seen they never told, 

Nor what they had done : 
I saw young lads tum'd suddenly old; 

I saw the blind in the sun 
Look up to pray, as if the blue 

Was shapt like a cross : 
There came back one my husband knew, 

Spoke kindly of my loss. 

He told me how my love was dead ; 

He was not the first ! 
Broadcast our land the word of dread 

Told women the worst. 
They say, let love and light be given 

So we keep Liberty; 
But I say there is no more Heaven 

If men must so be free. 

xi 

Can it be own'd that kings were crown'd, 

Consecrate to such evil? 
God-appointed, by God anointed 

Only to play the devil! 
Their men to bind of the tiger kind, 

To bind and then to goad. 
Blundering, slavering, hot and blind, 

On murder's hollow road? 

5 65 



The Village Wife's Lament 

If kings are so, then let all go — 

Let my dear love cast down 
His lovely life, so we lay low 

The last to wear a crown. 
I'll look upon the steadfast stars, 

Patient and true and wise. 
And read in them the end of wars, 

As in my dead love's eyes. 

O Lord of Life, for whom this earth 

Should image back Thy thought. 
Wherein the mystery of birth 

In Love like Thine be wrought, 
If pity stands with Thy commands. 

Grant a short breathing-space 
Ere men hold up their bloody hands 

Before Thy awful face. 



66 



Note 



Note 

THIS poem is dramatic, and I am not to 
be supposed answerable for all that it 
expresses; nevertheless I think that my 
own convictions about aggressive war are very- 
much those of my Village Wife. Of defensive 
war, of war to save the lives of our children, of 
war to save humanity itself, there cannot be 
two sane opinions: that is a pious duty forced 
upon us; but it becomes every day more incon- 
ceivable to me how men can engage in the other 
kind of war, and how, in particular, a people so 
provident as the German people could have hood- 
winked themselves into believing that they could 
be better off by such a monstrous means as war- 
fare has now become. They had behind them 
the experience of the Russians and Japanese; 
they had all about them the evidences of their 
forty years* commercial activity ; they must have 
known, or at least their governors must have 
known, what kind of results might be looked for 
from modem armament — and yet they dared risk 
the dereliction of human morality, the cutting 
69 



Note 

off of a generation of men, and their own national 
bankruptcy. Whether it was the madness of lust, 
or of pride, or of fear, it was a madness which 
has procured the greatest disaster of recorded 
time, and revealed a criminal folly in themselves 
which it will take more than two generations to 
efface. Indeed, German blood-lust will become 
one of the standing legends of History. 

The Village Wife knows nothing of the Ger- 
mans, however, and her reproaches strike at the 
heart of Mankind. So long as Mankind looks 
upon aggressive war as a reasonable, if ultimate, 
appeal, her reproaches will have force, and be 
deserved. They, or something like them (with 
the sanction of inspiration upon them), will, I 
believe, be the means of our redemption. As 
human nature still actually is, no League of 
Nations conceivable to us will be able to save us 
from war. Rend your hearts and not your arma- 
ments. Let us learn to look War in the face, and 
while the blood is cold, so that we may know what 
we are meaning to do. Let us put a moral taboo 
upon it, such as we have put upon parricide, or 
incest, or cannibalism. For certain, in those 
matters, the reason has put a sanction on the 
conscience. So will it in the matter of aggressive 
war. Side by side with that, as we now see, we 
must change the governance of nations. If those 
who do a nation's work are given their due share 
70 



Note 

of that nation's government, war, I firmly believe, 
will become a dark memory, a blotted cloud upon 
a past age. "Hundreds of years ago," it will 
one day be said to some wondering child, "men 
hired men to murder each other for the sake of 
their religion or their commerce. This they had 
done for thousands of years until at last, in 
the most dreadful of their wars, they killed or 
maimed a whole generation in the space of about 
four years. Then it was that men saw what they 
had been doing, and for a while the world was 
shamed, silent. That time of silence was long 
enough to turn the hearts of men. " 

I have put into the mouth of my Village Wife 
thoughts which she may never have formulated, 
but which, I am very sure, lie in her heart, too 
deep for any utterance but that of tears. If I 
know anything of village people I know this, that 
they shape their lives according to Nature, and 
are outraged to the root of their being by the 
frustration of Nature's laws and the stulti- 
fication of man's function in the scheme of 
things. What the function of man is, what the 
power, what the dignity have been well para- 
phrased in these words: 

" ' Neither a fixed abode, nor a form in thine own 
likeness, nor any gift peculiar to thyself alone, 
have we given thee, O Adam, in order that what 
abode, what likeness, what gifts thou shalt choose 

71 



Note 

may be thine to have and to possess. The nature 
allotted to all other creatures, within laws ap- 
pointed by ourselves, restrains them. Thou, 
restrained by no narrow bounds, according to 
thy own free will, in whose power we have placed 
thee, shalt define thy nature for thyself. We 
have set thee midmost the world, that thence 
thou might est more conveniently survey what- 
soever is in the world. Nor have we made thee 
either heavenly or earthly, mortal or immortal, to 
the end that thou, being, as it were, thy own 
free maker and moulder, shouldst fashion thy- 
self in what form may like thee best. Thou shalt 
have power to decline unto the lower or brute 
creatures. Thou shalt have power to be reborn 
unto the higher or divine, according to the sen- 
tence of thy intellect.' Thus to Man, at his 
birth, the Father gave seeds of all variety and 
germs of every form of life. " 

That is near enough to the Nature of Man for 
present purposes. 

"Teach us man's worth, that we may know it, 
Who, being alone in power to lift 
Above his nature, sinks below it!'* 

Broadchalke, 7ih July, 191 8. 



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